Ground-breaking Unculture
by C.O. Rosette
Summary: Although it was released months ago, Fancy by Iggy Azalea is still going strong from commercials to word on the street. Furious that she was not credited for her work, Cindy attempts to take back what is hers. Meanwhile, Ed Wuncler Sr. has rather sketchy plans for the money the town could exploit from a potential lawsuit. Thumbnail from bethejedi on tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

My brother doesn't normally go surfing the web for frivolous music videos by talentless, mainstream, hip hop sensations no matter what anyone may believe to be true. The internet hasn't exactly been safe on our main, family history browser due to our grandad's frequent posting of nudes on different dating websites. So Riley doesn't get most of the current events in the "urban" world from the gossip column on the dash.

Actually, most of the entertainment news that we receive is either from tv, or a famous rapper coming to live next door. The reason I find it odd to walk in on Riley searching Youtube for Iggy Azalea's "Fancy" isn't because it's online, but because of the entire song's background. It may be only subconscious, but since most mainstream, gangsta rappers are black males, it's unapparent that Riley would even think to deliberately listen to (let alone search the internet for) one that is white and female, no matter how popular she is. That and I doubt he knows anything about Clueless.

I walk casually to my bed and throw my duffle bag on top of the comforter. Then I walk back to where Riley sits on the swivel chair in front of our computer. Because of grandad's ongoing obsession with online dating, we use our bedroom computer a lot more than our regular one now. I stand behind Riley who barely seems to notice my presence, his eyes bored and his cheek rested on his palm, and take a look at the screen. He is on Youtube, looking at search results. I'm surprised to see what song is typed in the search box. A list of thumbnails with descriptions on the sides, ordered by popularity, pertaining to that search appear below. Riley clicks the first one and after a brief Windex advertisement, a hip hop song with a rhythmic and flowing melody begins while people cosplaying as the characters from the movie Clueless sit in desks on an identical set. The Australian blonde dressed as Cher Horowitz begins "rapping" in an exaggerated and obviously fake, urban accent.

At this point, I'd expect Riley to start ripping this video apart for it's "gayness" and the like. Surprisingly, he says nothing. He just continues to watch the song through, keeping the same, bored face the whole time. He doesn't look like he hates it in the slightest. He just seems apathetic.

"What are you watching?" I finally decide to ask him.

"Iggy Azalea," he mutters, not bothering to turn around.

"Why?" I pry. I don't expect Riley to appreciate my somewhat nosy intrigue, but this is too curious a subject for me to just let go. Hopefully my brother isn't being scammed into something. If he is, it's again my job to get him out of any mess he's gotten himself into. I doubt this is any sort of scam, though. Riley would never fall for anything he seems to care so little about.

"Jazmine suggested it to me," he replies.

"Jazmine?" I cock my eyebrows inwardly. "Since when do you ever listen to Jazmine?"

"I don't," Riley suddenly swivels around to face me defensively. "But she said Cindy's in it, which I know is weird, because Cindy's white, but if there is any white girl that could rap, it would be her. What did those record producers do to her in the video? They musta blackmailed her or something. Cindy is not the type of girl to be told what to do by the man. Look at her! She looks way different."

I close my eyes and shake my head, but not apparently enough for Riley to notice, "That is because it's not Cindy."

"Huh?" Riley looks up at me, thoroughly confused. "You just sayin' stupid stuff again so that people will think sounds smart, and then later they'll feel stupid when they see that you're stupid!"

"Jazmine might be naïve," I think aloud. "But she's not that dumb." Strange thoughts come into my head. Are both Riley and Jazmine being tricked into something? Cindy couldn't be behind this. She's clever, but she respects us all too much to try to trick us. None of the three of us have crossed her as of late. "How did Jazmine get this information?"

"How should I know? She said that Cindy wrote the song. She must've told her."

"I should be surprised by this, but this is exactly the archetype of role model that she would try to pursue. Besides, writers are hired by record companies to write songs for other people to sing anyway."

"What! So it's that evil, record company's fault again? Dey so gay. They always stealin' a nigga's work and makin' some poser sing it instead! What happened to artistic integrity?"

"It's not necessarily a bad thing, Riley. It's just how the industry works."

"I hope Cindy knows about this! She'll give those bitch-ass niggas at the studio what they deserve if she not locked in a basement somewhere."

"As wrong as you are about this whole kidnapping and plagiarism business, I'd like to get to the bottom of this myself."

We do end up finding out what the whole deal is all about, though there is nothing we can exactly do to stop the coming onslaught of dehumanization and slander. We all knew Cindy was a determined girl, but who could have predicted she can be this bloodthirsty? It's true I want to figure out exactly what pissed Cindy off and why Jazmine and Riley believe she wrote that song, but I don't usually bring people out to the Tree no matter what I need to clear my head of. It's my own private, thinking spot. Unfortunately, today my brother just decided to follow me out there. He's hoping we can help Cindy get her revenge as soon as possible.

I don't know who Riley called, but as soon as we reach the tree atop the hill, overlooking the countryside, none other than Jazmine and her friend Cindy come racing up the grassy hillside to meet us.

Cindy blows fumes of rather explicit altercations every which way, "She stole it! I still can't believe that skinny-ass ho stole my song!" She throws her arms into the air melodramatically. I guess she really does mean business.


	2. Chapter 2

"What's wrong, Cindy?" I ask her as she seethes, my left eyebrow up in suspicion. Now I know something is definitely going on here.

"I tried to tell him, Cindy," Riley declares loudly behind me. "I tried to tell him about her stealin' from you, but he too gay to listen."

I shake my head. I've always known what sort of friends I had. They are always so easily swept into the latest, mainstream fad of which they happen to be the target audience. I close my eyes, but continue talking, the wind blowing the top of my thick block of hair, "Cindy, have you ever considered that that Fancy song isn't even that good?"

With that, though I'm two years her senior and a good three inches taller excluding the hair difference, the blonde stomps through the tall grass right up to me, an angered expression on her face as though I just insulted her great ancestors and grabs the hem of my white t-shirt, "What did you just say about my song, nigga? Don't forget, I'll fuck you up!" Never did she actually state that she would "fuck me up" before, so there really isn't much to forget.

"Was the song really even yours to begin with?" I stand, still entrenched in Cindy's hostile stronghold. Jazmine watches from a few feet away, worried and fidgety. "What proof do you have of ownership? What can you show us to convince us that you're the one who wrote it?" I stand still not because I am scared of what Cindy will do,- I know I can more than match her in battle- but because I can't condone violence in such a sacred place.

I find myself being shoved to the ground after the glorious failure of Riley attempting to break my fall. We both end up in awkward positions on the tall, wavy grass, watching Cindy stalk back to where Jazmine stands and plays nervously with her hair, "You don't know the things that I know." I sincerely doubt that. I'm the smartest in this small group of friends, and likely the whole town.

Jazmine hesitantly shakes her friend's arm, "Cindy, we should go now. Let's not bother them anymore."

"It's not that dumb, british whore who's fancy, IT'S ME! It's MY flow that retarded! I'M the one that makes everybody already know! Everyone should already know that Fancy is mine! You can tell because it has the most unique style ever. I can't believe you actually supported her by buying her album!" Cindy fumes at her.

"I already said I'm sorry, geez!" Jazmine snaps back at her as they walk back down the hill and out of sight.

"Isn't Iggy Azalea from Scotland?" Riley wonders aloud after a few seconds.

"I hate to admit it," I say as I watch them go, the wind ruffling Jazmine's poofy, light brown hair as it does mine. "But although Fancy may not be as original as Cindy claims it to be, it's still the perfect song for her." It's true. Ask any white person with a gangsta complex. Whenever they rap, it always has an unintentional and ironic twist and an accent fake beyond belief.

Riley starts to annoyingly shout again as I turn to face him, "Nigga, look what you did just now! You made it worse!"

"We didn't do anything," I reply, sounding unintentionally apathetic. "Remember, she approached us. We weren't even going to talk to her until we saw her in town."

I suddenly lose interest in sitting by my tree. Riley and his friends sort of ruined the moment. As I begin to walk back down the hill, he runs up and stops in front of me, blocking my path, "Huey, listen. You are the smartest person I know."

I raise my eyebrow, "Go on…"

Riley shakes his head, disgusted that he just had to swallow his pride and admit that I was right, "Shut up! You're the smartest person I know, and so you always know exactly what will happen. I know you went into the conversation with Cindy probably knowing what she gonna do and not doing anything to stop it! You didn't even try to warn her."

"If Cindy wants to go and sue Iggy Azalea, that's her decision. I had no intention in the beginning to make things worse for any of us. You're right, Riley. I do always know what will happen with you guys. That's how I know that nothing of lasting consequence will come of her actions even if she does go through with it- though I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't. You always survive all the stupid things you do, don't you? She's just like you. She'll live. She lived through your whole fundraiser, pyramid ploy, did she not?"

Riley just scowls, turns around, and begins walking back toward home, "There you go again, sayin' stupid shit that I don't understand and have no choice but to dismiss it."

"Boys! Get on your finest clothes!" Granddad yells from downstairs. "We're going into town!"

I hear him from the living room. I put down the current issue of "The Chicago Reporter" rip off, stare at the blank tv screen, and ponder why we would need to dress so nicely just to go into town. I hear Riley scream from our bedroom upstairs, "Why we gotta go to town today, Granddad? Nothin' even happening!"

"Boys!" our granddad yells again. I walk from the living room, down the hall, and into the front room. Granddad struggles to button the top of his black vest and mutters furiously. "Can't have put on that much weight, could I?"

I walk up behind him, "Granddad, why are you dressed like you're at a funeral?"

He spins around and I dodge as his spit hurls itself toward my face, "I told you, we're going into town! Now get upstairs and put on one of your fancy outfits. They're holding a town meeting and I won't have you dressed like your usual, lazy selves."

At that moment, Riley comes stomping down the stairs dressed in the furry, white, pimpin' coat he "earned" from his "fundraiser," "Granddad, I'm ready- Whoa. We goin' to church or somethin'?"

"Riley, you are not wearing that pimp jacket to city hall," Granddad shakes his head seriously. "The mayor is holding an important meeting and if we miss- aw hell. Let's just go!"


	3. Chapter 3

From the moment Granddad pulls his once-pimped-out car into the parking lot of city hall, it is clear that something's wrong. We have to wait ten minutes simply in order to get through the traffic jam of other cars beeping and clogging up the entrance to the lot. Granddad contributes to the beeping, "Move it, you lazy, albino snakes! Can't a man get to town hall without being stopped up by a crowd of frivolous, teenagers texting on their iPhones? Damn millennials…"

I stare out the shotgun window, perplexed by the turnout, "That's odd. Since when do this many people show up for a town meeting?" It is odd. Most people in Woodcrest are more frivolous than the Duboiss. They couldn't care less about what goes on with the city even if it would affect the very core of their families.

"Maybe because..," Granddad goes on sarcastically behind the wheel, concentrating on the road and not turning to face me. "They are devoted citizens who want to know what is going on with their town like any decent person should!"

"Granddad, ain't no one cares about what happen in this gay town, and no one should!" Riley sulks from the backseat.

After a tedious wait of polluting the air along with the rest of Woodcrest's citizens, testing the car in front to move finally so that we could not be stuck on the parking, lot driveway and sidewalk (not to mention the continuous and pointless honking and mindless shouting always in the back of our minds), we are finally able to roll a few feet forward. By the time we can step out of the car and stretch for even a bit, another unpleasant disturbance bestows our air.

"Well, well, if it isn't the nice, darkened, Freeman family," I know that phlegmy voice of shredded lungs anywhere. I notice Riley and Granddad's bewildered faces as heavy, shuffling footsteps approach out parking space. I spin around, the bottom of my dark brown coat whirling from the motion, to see exactly who I was expecting. The fat, red bulb of Ruckus's paunch casts a shadow in the midday sun up to my head. My family and I don't say anything. It isn't worth the next move quite yet. I do, however, hear Riley snort a little, as if he is about to question the dirty, old man, but stops short, probably by Granddad. I keep my glare right into Ruckus's eyes. It's always an unpleasant surprise to run into him everywhere we go. "Here for the loot, I see. Leave it to broke negroes to blame their problems on the rich, white man and then pathetically attempt to swindle them out of their rightfully-earned cash. What else would bring your family here? If I recall correctly, I haven't seen you at a town meeting since half a decade ago, Robert."

"Go on and get out of here, Ruckus," Granddad waves Uncle Ruckus away while Riley buries his nose into his oversized, tank top. "We're not interested in what the town really has to say. We're only interested in the money rumored by all of the neighbors."

"Heh," Ruckus spits. "Just as I suspected. Nothing you negroes want more than draining this white town of its hard-earned money. Don't care nothin' for the people inside…" His voice fades away as he walks slowly off to the other side of the parking lot.

"Pff," Granddad gargles his words. "That Ruckus is good for nothing but chess. And even Tom is beginning to beat him in that field. Come on, boys. Let's see if we can find better seats than our parking space."

We enter City Hall and stand in the doorway, searching for three open spots together. The wide, meeting room is already packed. Uncle Ruckus purposely distracted us so that we'd get a bad seat. We inch into the back of the ovular room. The townspeople, both black and white, sit and stand, scattered around the padded chairs and chatter on about what this meeting is about. Granddad, Riley, and I are able to squeeze into some comfortable enough chairs while the council is being arranged.

Finally, our heavyset mayor taps the microphone, revealing an obnoxious thumping sound that pounds the eardrums of everyone in the room. Then, Ed Wuncler I begins to speak, "Good afternoon and thank you, everyone, for taking time out of your busy schedules to come meet here today. You may have heard talk around here that a certain, youth, basketball prodigy has made quite the commitment a few days ago." I feel Riley shift slightly uncomfortably on my left. Could it really be? "As you know, little Cindy McPhearson is currently on her way to Australia to take care of a little business involving stolen copyright and horrendous, rap lyrics. We have received word that she was originally travelling to the Republic of Vanuatu not far from Australia, but she had to go a little bit farther because that is not where Iggy Azalea lives." It is!

"It's her! They're talkin' about Cindy!" Riley whispers.

"Why is this meeting about her?" I wonder quietly aloud.

"This meeting is about money like I told you," Granddad whispers furiously to us. "If your little friend sues a famous rapper, the cash has to travel back here. And when it does, Riley can get some of it from Cindy and the rest of our financial problems will all flush down the drain!"

"But Granddad, how come you?" Riley whispers more intensely. "All those dick-riders I thought would swindle Cindy out of her hard-earned dough, dey were you?"

"Riley, shush!" I say to him. "He's affirming it."

"And so, people of Woodcrest," Ed Wuncler I's voice booms through the mic. "What shall the town do with the sure millions we will all soon receive upon little Miss Mcphearson's return is for you to decide!" We all end up walking bewildered back to our cars from City Hall. Ed Wuncler I announced what was not his business as some sort of sweepstakes and let the town loose to scheme.


End file.
